


The Moonstone

by Chajiko



Series: Bedtime Stories for Haytham [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Bedtime stories for Haytham, Pirates, Salty old dog, excuses to write things like this, ghost story, nautical adventures, ships, storms at sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:16:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chajiko/pseuds/Chajiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Kenway's night gets a little more interesting when he meets a man with a hell of a story to tell, provided Edward keeps his tankard filled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moonstone

_At first glance, the man by the fire appeared fairly ancient.  His face was turned towards the grate, the ruddy light playing along his fine white hair. His shoulders were stooped, and the gloved hand which held his tankard was stiff-fingered with apparent age. He looked up as I took the opposite seat, my own tankard between my hands, and I saw that he actually wasn’t old at all.  His face was unlined--he probably wasn’t much older than I was, but the haunted eyes matched the hair gone so dreadfully and prematurely white._  
“You look like you’ve seen some things, mate.” I said by way of greeting, and I got a faint quirk of the lips in response.  
“Aye,” he rasped, and took a draught from his tankard. “I weren’t always like this.”  
“No man born so,” I said agreeably, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.  “What’s it take to turn a lad into an old man?”  
My companion raised his tankard, and I saw that it was empty. I gestured, and soon enough it was refreshed.   
“Fair price,” he rasped after another long pull of the ale. “It was a year ago this very night, and we was about one hundred miles out of Tortuga.”

\--------

The day was overcast, the waters choppy. We--the _Red Martin--_ was on our way into Tortuga with a haul taken off of a Spanish ship or two, and the general mood of the crew was what you might call garrulous. We had been at sea for months, and every man-jack of us was ready to put our feet on dry land and spend our new-found riches on grog and ladies ‘afore castin’ off again.  
The glass had dropped, though, said the Second Mate, and it looked like we was in for a fair blow that night.  It was in the scramble to right the ship for the storm that we spotted her, three great dark masts in the distance.  
  
The schooner was sittin’ somewhat to the port and some ways off--it would have been spotted sooner but for the sails that were furled tight as a bat’s wings against the yardarms.  The sight of it was strange somehow--the brisk wind was pushin’ us along at full sail, and we was determined to use it to full advantage as you might say, to maybe even ride the front of the storm straight into port--and then here was this bird with all three of its masts as naked as winter branches. A shout from the captain and the helmsman had shifted our course a few degrees, and we was set to pass close to the other ship.

There was no-one on deck.

Not a soul stirred--not a gun was wheeled, not a shout given, not a rope tied--and that wasn’t all.  Despite the water that bucked and hove below the hull like a muleish horse, the ship didn’t rise or fall an inch. It was just---there, held in place as though some great hand held it from below perfectly in place.

The creakin’ of the wood and rope and canvas of the _Red Martin_ seemed almost deafenin’ in comparison to the strange stillness of the other ship.  As we came about the aft end and cast the anchor, men busily furlin’ our own sails, the gold letters on the dark-stained wood named her the _Moonstone._  
  
The orders flyin’ by above our heads made it clear that the Captain didn’t intend to go on and leave this uninvestigated--the ship flew no colours, after all, and a good privateer would never let the chance of a healthy catch slip us by.  
If the Captain and the First Mate were alarmed, neither of them showed it--but that was no surprise. Captain Pollow was the sort of man who’d walk down the throat of hell and manage to look bored whilst doin’ it. About half of the crew looked uneasy, and a few were all-out afraid, backin’ ‘way from the rail with horror on their faces.  The rest, though, didn’t seem so much as a hair bothered.  
  
The boardin’ party was soon put together, and I found meself crossin’ the plank with a dozen and a ‘alf of me mates.  We was all armed to the teeth, not knowin’ what we’d find there on that ship.  
  
What we found was naught but more silence. 

The deck didn’t shift under our feet, and there was nary a sound to answer our calls.  It were the Captain himself who led us to the state-room door, rappin’ with the hilt of his cutlass.

There weren’t no answer, and soon enough the captain was pullin’ at the handle and cursin’ a little, findin’ it locked. One swift kick broke the lock, though, and we was inside.  
  
The room beyond was dim.  The great windows were hidden behind thick velvet drapes, though the darkness did nothin’ to hide the sheer opulence of the place.  Everywhere a body looked was gilt and filigree and richly upholstered, and the room beyond was just as rich.  There were small chests and coffers spread about, some open, and the gleam of gold could be seen.  
One sharp word from the Captain halted them what was foolish enough to be reachin’ and riflin’, and he sent a goodly ‘alf to stand out on the deck whilst we rest ventured on.  
  
We found the _Moonstone_ ’s captain in his bed.  
  
Now--I’m a man what has a _healthy_ appreciation for the charms of a lady, but I en’t afraid to say that man in the bed was the most beautiful of the breed I’d ever seen, be it for one problem: he was stone dead.  
The blanket was pulled up to his breast, folded hands restin’ atop it. No breath stirred him, and not a tremor of a pulse disturbed that ivory skin.  

I en’t afraid to say that we all made somethin’ of a hasty exit.  At another barked order from Captain Pollow we was all makin’ our ways belowdecks, and that’s where we found the rest of ‘em.

Whole crew, every man--all seemin’ly asleep in his hammock--but each dead as a doornail.  They was all pale and cold as if they’d been dead awhile, but not a touch of rot marred a square inch of ‘em.  No rats had gnawed noses or toeses, and they lay as men who had died without pain.  
“Poison,” someone muttered.

“Devil,” whispered another.

“ _Witchcraft,”_ murmured a third.

None of us payed any heed to the little coffers and bags that gave tantalisin’ glimpses of gold and gems within--at that moment none of us could think of anythin’ but gettin’ our arses off that ship of the dead.

I don’ have much memory of gettin’ from the _Moonstone_ back to the _Red Martin_ , but soon enough the sails were billowed out again and we was on our way.  
  
The storm took us just before nightfall, and it came on all asudden, with the winds howlin’ up out o’the south without so much as a warnin’ gust.

The sky turned black as we hastened to pull in the canvas and batten the guns and douse the galley fire, battenin’ the ship for a blow the likes of which had torn bigger ships apart afore us.

It was then that we saw her, comin’ up out of the east.  
She was runnin’ with full canvas, and there was a strange glow all about her, as though she sailed on a clear night under a full moon, reflectin’ silver off sail and deck.

The _Moonstone_ moved through the waves as though there were nothin’ to hinder it, no crash of wave again’ her hull, no wind to lash and tear her sails, rippin’ the masts from their seats. Oddest of all, though, was that she moved ‘ _cross_ the wind, as if moved by some wind that not a man of _us_ felt.

There were men on her deck now, goin’ about their business as if there weren’t no hurricane blowin’ up a hell out of the South. Those men--I swear to you on me own mother’s grave--they was the faces of those we’d seen dead.

And there at the prow, his hands on the wheel, there stood the Captain. He had the same sort of unearthly glow as the ship, and his eyes as they looked forward were black as coal. And--sure as I live and breathe--he turned his head and looked _straight_ at me.  I never felt nothin’ like it--pierced to me soul I was, and from that day for’ard--

\-------

_He gestured at his white locks, and his face was haggard.  “t’aint no easy thin’ to tell.”  
I gestured again for his tankard to be refilled, and he drained it all in one go.  “I know it sounds like naught but foolishness,” he said darkly, “But mind yourself.  You never know when you might find yourself beatin’ aft of the Moonstone and its crew of damned men.”_


End file.
